


The door, the hallway, the courtyard, the staircase, the home.

by SleepingReader



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 02:32:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10710339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepingReader/pseuds/SleepingReader
Summary: This is what the road to my house looks like.





	The door, the hallway, the courtyard, the staircase, the home.

There's a door in this city that no one notices. People put their bikes in front of it, have a smoke in front of it. Behind that door is a hallway, dusty and riddled with cobwebs. It's brown, and the light doesn't always work. The floor is uneven. Anyone carrying a grocery bag could easily trip and fall. And yet everyone who passes through the hallway feels like running. It is silent there, backstage to the busy city. Beyond the hallway is a little square area, a courtyard, if the house was in medieval times. There is a garbage can, a bees nest, a old sign from a phone shop that isn't there anymore. Deflated balloons from an opening that should have fixed things. Cigarette butts from people who don't work anymore. And a staircase. Like the ones that lead to a waterslide in a water park. 

It hurts your bare feet if you climb it. Your boots freeze to it in the winter, and your hands get burned by it in summer. Climb the winding staircase and you come to the first floor. Two people live there, though you'll never see them. A rainy, muddy footprint in the little brown hallway that is destined for running is the only evidence that there are people living above the phone shop. The door is shut. The lights are off. A pair of slippers on their balcony. They have been there since summer. Is the owner alive? Do they exist? Clarinet music drifting through the silence says they might. 

Climb up further, and you find a large balcony that looks out over the rooftops of the city. A blue chair sits alone near a fake-grass mat. Lanterns near the wall. Planters near the edge of the balcony. It's quiet here. Look out over the rooftops, but no one is ever outside. The balcony always feels like rain, even in the summer. There is a door in the wall. The sun breaks out from the clouds. The entire balcony seems painted with syrup. There are flowers in the planters. The chair with its fake-grass mat seems inviting. The door is open. The house smells like baking, hot glue, warm fur, wool and old books. You are welcome here.

**Author's Note:**

> Felt like writing, so I wrote this!


End file.
